Hirsute of Happiness?

Say, did I ever tell everyone about, how, many years ago, during a trip to Africa, I managed to beat off, with my bare hands, an aggressive troop of banana marauding chimpanzees? Though the chimps managed to leave the banana grove half full, it was I, the one left holding onto the bags, who, I assuredly tell you, certainly did not leave the thicket of bananas empty handed!

Oh geez, hang on a minute, that did not come out right.

Have I ever mentioned about my recent trip to Saskatchewan, where one evening, thigh high in a swift current, I skillfully breached a beaver dam, only to leave with many a hairy pelt stories? Or perhaps they were beaver tales.

I will forego the chatter about myself jawing with a moose displaying a well-hung rack.

Mainlining the Junk!

Oh how things change. In a regressive progressive societal way out to weigh in on a sliding scale.

No longer can a supervised injection site strictly be used to describe the government tangled strata of a politically sponsored medium put in place in order to prevent vulnerable citizenry from overdosing on overpoweringly jacked-up ancestral sending narcotic regimes.

Nowadays the serfs-up new-wave supervised injection site regime has been constructed at the hands of the Globalist Triumvirate under the wicked intention and strict function of overdosing the mass formation of cognitively vulnerable citizenry, through the endless mainlining of a massive steady dose of cerebral medium with manufactured synthetic dope-demean of which bypasses the affected mind’s nullified wisdom and logic receptors, lodging directly in the formation of a junked-out pudding vessel of convulsive foaming mouth incoherent rambling and rolled eyes blinded anomaly. Flat-lined indeed.

The Proof Is In The Pudding

If one deciphered it not, one might be a strung-out junkie. Corporate and state media, along with the lobotomizing Entertainment Industrial Complex are the jacked-up soul killing product. Bypassing the street corner, coming at you live, right in one’s own home. Fantasy as a reality production services.

Time to inject the antidote – Nogovzone – straight into the afflicted heart so it can slowly begin to trickle into the brain in order to alleviate the demented depths of despair such an addiction levies upon the non-cognizant mainlining addict.

Time for Step One. There is a long ways to climb out of that programming.

“Royal” Habitrails

Well, beer production lasted about 13,000 years before some moronic snowflake lacking any understanding of self improvement, common sense, non attention seeking existence, and selfish stupidity decreed the need for a warning label of beer’s ingredients. Besides, how can beer contain anything other than beer?

It is only fitting that the domestication of dogs from their wolf predecessor is scientifically debatable to have occurred between 14,000 years and 39,000 years ago. But surely the real question that needs to be gotten to the bottom of is, how on earth did dogs manage to survive for thousands of years without jackets and cute little booties that make them want to walk in adulation of a domestic house cat that has had Scotch tape applied to the bottom of its furry paws?

Do I really have to go for a walk?

Undoubtedly, our educationally superior woke “common sense” era must have reassuredly come to the conclusion that before the advent of cheese, mice must have been ever presently upon the verge of starvation, and also, no doubt, be endlessly pondering what a domesticated dog used to eat for thousands of years before the industrial revolution began the monopolization and degradation of ever more preservative laden and grainy detached bulk of extruded opaque fishbowl existence.

Speaking of confining aquariums, might I suggest that lifejackets for fish become the go to product for 2024. It is bound to make someone a lot of money. Humanity has reached that novelty point. After having written about being the victim of Mom’s wooden spoon, shortly afterwards I began seeing website pop-up advertisements for shirts that read, “WOODEN SPOON SURVIVOR.”

Something tells me that there must be a line of designer gerbil costumes for the “royal” ascension balls of splendour crowning their genocidal achievements of history to and fro. One hell of a coronation it will be. May the sixth be up Chuck. Hide the Hamster indeed! Something tells me that Zelensky’s small head will be making an appearance as, oops, on Chuck’s six in May celebration. Heil the heil!

Protocol Stupefy the World

Welcome to the 21st century! Though, you know what, let me begin a new dating system to mark our now absolute zero truth doublespeak singularity woke times. 2023 it no longer be, welcome to year -3. That’s right, negative three it be.

Kicked off by the shameful covid debacle and every doofus that fell into the Globalist totalitarian terror apparatus supreme swallowed wholeheartedly and quarter brainingly by what seemed to be 95% of countries and the bulk of humanity within, on all sides of the sector, aisle and geographical positioning system. Watch out for those “professionals.”

Really, anyone who participated within that terror episode, whether being a government flunky or strictly a compliant for whatever reason vax accepting monkey should be barred for life from ever being able to attain any seniority or positional power whatsoever. Those in any form of government that “masterminded” the tyranny should be fired, have their pension nullified, be subjected to corporal punishment and then have Klaus Schwab’s face tattoed on their forehead for life and be subjected to monthly rotten food pelting sessions.

How far into negative existence will humanity sink within its own laid bare quagmire sewage existence? Eyeballs in muck and counting down- in negative life deferring years that is. Without a doubt with all the mindless obedient to ignorance subjects about, a sewage Crowning achievement it will be. Give them their own little sunsetting coroner of paradise. A “royal” flush indeed. Purge that Throne Troll system.

Blowing Their Unsizeable Loads For Public Consumption

Does anybody remember the times of yore when wars were fought without certain parties making a point of letting the world know that they, as well as the other side of the conflict are most certainly dangerously close to running out of ammunition, artillery and bombs? Personally, I do not want to hear about such nonsense, especially when the corpses have in no way shape or form slowed down in endlessly piling up.

However if such stockpile depletion were to indeed occur, I would rather see it firsthand in uncensored battle footage where, say, the Russians bombarded the UKrainian side with Crown imbued dildos dropped from fighter aircraft in lieu of the current under manufacture guided missile systems being pumped out of Santa’s workshop. Certainly it would give UKrainians a great opportunity for self reflection.

Or maybe the UKrainians could lay a trail of borscht crumbs from the Russian side to their own trench front, then, as the Russians beet around the camouflaging bush, a Neo-Nazi musket barrage derived from the crushed up bones of the dead teenagers and pensioners manning the bulk of UKrainian “strongholds” erupts from the UKrainian position of fruitless hollow point trajectory.

La Derrière Au Contraire

Do they see what I see? Because I can see what they see, and at the same time that they see it too. Though they know not as their attention has been diverted. Why no, how silly, those pants do not make one’s butt look big! It is one’s butt that makes one’s pants look big! Don’t worry, their secret is safe with me. Until I start a blog that is. Oops, too late. Here we go, self reflection – on their part.

City dwelling, reflections all around. Hard to resist, on their part that is. As they stroll by they gaze they gazed a stare upon that derriere, not knowing that someone else was there. Au revoir, til they meet again in reflective conveyance of baited breadth.

We’ve all done it, well except for the blind maybe. I just find it extremely amusing when a woman is walking on the sidewalk and she decides to peer into the storefront window to gaze at her own reflection, where her only line of sight sure seems to be a fixation on the dimensional analyses of her posterior accompaniment. Makes me wonder about private mirror time.

Personally the thought that crosses my mind when I do a public window gaze is something along the lines of, “That dumb shit sure looks just as stupid in public as he does in private.”


May Six Celebrations – Chucks Crowning Achievement!